You’d issued her name like a rebuke, the outburst punching a hole through the quiet of your bedroom. And then for a while you’d both just sat there, staring petulantly at one another until you were both certain the noise hadn’t drawn unwanted attention.

Chaehee had been the one to break the stalemate. Naturally.

“I should have known better than to come to you with this,” she’d whispered, accusatory. “Only you could twist a discovery this fascinating into a lecture.”

You’d glared at her in that moment, tempted to confess that you’d been well aware of something down there long before her lurid admission.

The errant brush of your hand or the pinch of too-tight smallclothes or the firm press of your horse’s saddle could induce the strangest frisson of sensation. You’d thought of it as a kind of happy accident, the antithesis to the shooting pain you might feel after striking your wrist against a sharp corner.

And surely, you’d reasoned, it had to be forbidden.

Just the thought of your mother’s stern face, lips pressed into a flat, unforgiving line was enough to stop you from exploring this secret thrill from your most secret place. Not once had you been courageous enough to contemplate the idea that it wasn’t an accident at all. Or to consider how you might make it happen again.

Not like Chaehee.

“You’re just like her you know,” she’d accused hotly, climbing off your bed. “Always obsessing over propriety and etiquette.”

Your mouth had dropped wide open at that charge, lips parted to fire off a denial that never came. Your sister -- as discerning as she was disobedient -- always managed to strike right at the heart of the matter.

Then she’d whirled on you, finger pointed and eyes flashing.

“I hope you’re happy to live your life in the confines of a drawing room,” she’d declared. “I hope your stupid lessons and your stupid rules keep you warm at night. I worry for the day you wake up and realize you’re just as miserable as Mother.”

You can close your eyes now and still see the moment she’d quit your room in a huff.

You can practically see yourself in the memory, spine straight with indignation. Nose high in the air as you’d watched her leave. You can remember the way you’d pitied her, lamenting her certain descent into depravity and utterly convinced of your own goodness and maturity.

Only now can you see yourself for what you really were.

A little girl. A very foolish little girl.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

You suppose it was jealousy you’d felt as you’d watched the King and his lover. But perhaps it was not the kind of jealousy one would expect from a wife witnessing her husband’s indiscretions firsthand.

In that moment, you’d found yourself envying Namjoon’s authority. His manhood. All the advantages of his sex that empowered him to do exactly as he pleased, unbound or perhaps unbothered by the constraints of your marriage.

The constraints of your sex.

How truly useless the years of singing lessons and the hours sat in front of the pianoforte had been. How happy you’d been to mold yourself into a poised wife in waiting, living precisely -- obediently -- within the boundaries drawn by your mother.

The reminders about your posture, the limitations placed on your favorite sweets, the nightly ritual of brushing your hair until it shone. You’d done everything she’d asked without question, certain that she’d only intended to better you. Certain that in the end it would make you an exemplary wife.

Funny, that.

Now, you had no choice but to admit that the marriage your mother had spent years preparing you for was an abject failure. No choice but to acknowledge that despite being a married woman, you understood nothing about the private ways of women and men.

You had never -- and likely would never -- experience the kind of passion you’d witnessed between the King and his lover. And you’d been entirely complicit in maintaining your own ignorance. Proudly playing the part of a proper young miss and turning a blind eye to the things that made you too uncomfortable to confront.

So you suppose it is anger you feel when you think about the state of your marriage. Though in truth, your anger is only partially directed at the King.

More than anything, you’re angry with yourself.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The ties around your waist pull tight, stopping just short of causing real pain.

Hyeri is rather strong for a woman of her years, a testament to a life lived in service of others. Your entire body jostles under the direction of her strong hands as she works to secure the corset beneath your bodice.

“Keep fidgeting like that if you want to be here all morning,” Hyeri grumbles, nimble fingers pulling the ties through the loops. The garment tightens up the line of your back as she works, humming lightly under her breath. “You’re harder to dress than a schoolgirl sometimes, I swear it.”

If this were any other morning, you’d laugh at her. Return the barb in kind.

But this morning, you are nursing a tiny ember of anger that’s burned inside since you found your husband and his lover tangled together on his bed. This morning, despite the dread that grips your chest like a physical touch, you speak the words sitting just on the tip of your tongue.

“I saw them together.”

You release the confession into the air and it hangs there for a moment like a thick, fraught fog. Everything stops -- Hyeri’s hands at your back, the soothing sound of her humming. You can practically feel the way her entire body tenses behind you before she finally dares to speak.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she says at last. “So, so sorry.”

Your eyes fall shut as the implications of Hyeri’s words wash over you. Not once does she ask you who they are -- or what you saw them doing. Everything she doesn’t say confirms the suspicion that’s gnawed at you since the moment of your terrible discovery.

That the King’s indiscretion is an open secret. And that you are the last to know.

Hyeri returns to the work of securing your bodice again, this time a bit slower. Hands a bit less steady.

“Tell me then, Hyeri, “ you say, voice brittle with anger, “Am I sport for the footmen to enjoy over a tankard of ale? Do the maids titter about what a fool I am the moment I turn my back?”

Hyeri does not respond to your provocation. She’s quiet as the last section of corset comes together just below your shoulder blades and she fits your dress around it, wrinkled hands pushing out the gaps in the fine fabric. Once the dress is secure, she gently takes hold of your arms and turns you around.

“Sit with me, Your Grace,” she pleads softly. “Talk with me. Please.”

You study her for a long moment before nodding and allowing her to guide you to the nearby settee. She holds out a hand to help you settle onto the ornate bench before taking her place beside you.

You watch her wipe her palms across her own skirts before she speaks.

“There’s nothing I can say that will make this better,” she admits, shaking her head. “I’m embarrassed. For the King and for myself, perhaps. I am so sorry.”

“I care little for words of sympathy at this moment, Hyeri,” you say tightly. “I want the truth. I deserve that much.”

“Aye,” she sighs, “You do.”

“How long has the King been bedding women outside of our marriage?”

“Not women, Your Grace,” she answers quietly. “One woman. And it’s been going on for a very long time, I’m afraid. Years now.”

You stare at her, unblinking as you consider her words. Uncertain if you should feel more or less insulted now that you know the King’s tryst with this woman began long before you wed.

She clears her throat when you say nothing, looking down at her hands.

“She’s the daughter of his boyhood tutor, Your Grace. They were practically raised together. They’ve been close since they were children.“

“Close indeed,” you agree frigidly, fingers curling savagely into the heavy material of your skirt. “In fact, I dare say I’ve had the pleasure of seeing how close they are for myself.”

Your handmaid flushes deeply, spots of color appearing on her soft, creased cheeks.

“He begged his father to let him marry her. There were awful fights between the two of them. Weeks on end when His Grace refused to even speak to his father. The elder King eventually threatened to refuse him the throne and he was forced to accept the decision.”

“So it’s love, then.”

Hyeri is quiet for a long time before the meek agreement comes, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, Your Grace. I believe it is.”

Bitter laughter bubbles up your throat and Hyeri winces at the sound.

“Well, perhaps I should congratulate him,” you suggest, words dripping with acid. “Perhaps I should pen my husband a heartfelt note expressing my happiness that he’s managed to find that wondrous thing that seems to elude so many of us. How very fortunate for him.”

Hyeri’s eyes grow wide before she drops her gaze to her lap, staring down at her hands. She says nothing, but the paper-thin skin at the base of her throat ripples as she swallows thickly.

“All this time,” you muse darkly, “I thought the King simply incapable of passion. Truly, I must be the most foolish woman on the planet. Have you ever known a woman so profoundly imbecilic, Hyeri?”

“Don’t say that, Your Grace,” she whispers. “Please.”

You can’t bear to look at the sympathy in her soft, sweet face. So you turn away from it, seeking instead the morning sun just outside your chamber window. You stare blankly at the light that spills into your chamber.

“Who knows?”

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace,” she answers carefully, “But the King has always been exceedingly private. I imagine only those closest to him have any inkling.”

Those closest to him. Lord Jung.

His handsome face surfaces in your mind as you watch the light bend over the stone windowsill. Does he pity you? The thought makes your humiliation feel all the more acute.

Then the tea kettle is blaring, slicing through the silence.

Hyeri inhales deeply before rising from the settee. You stare numbly at the sunlight as she crosses the room to see to it, hearing the sounds of clinking metal and the soft gurgle of the boiling water over the fire.

After a while she appears before you with your tea and you accept it without thought, staring down into the murky dark liquid that seems to match your mood. The foul smell reaches your nose as you watch ribbons of essence swirl around in the cup, bringing a question to the forefront of your mind.

“Has she given him a child?”

You force yourself to ask the question despite the sudden, furious pounding of your heart. Despite your fear of hearing the answer, of having salt poured into the wound that’s already been opened inside of you.

“No, Your Grace,” Hyeri vows, taking a seat beside you once again. “No, she has not.”

You stare at her. A curious thing, that.

When you were a girl your mother had always made it seem as though falling pregnant were as simple as catching the common cold. She’d warned you against ever being alone with any boy of your age for that very reason. And you -- being you -- had followed her instruction to the letter.

But it would seem all of that caution and hand wringing was for naught.

The King has a wife and a lover -- but no children, legitimate or otherwise. Something about that knowledge prickles just beneath your consciousness like an itch. Your grip around the teacup tightens.

“Nothing is simple about this situation, Your Grace. The two of you have been thrust into an arrangement I’m certain neither one of you would have chosen otherwise. But I do believe there is a way to make the best of the circumstances you’ve been given.”

The image of the King’s bare back flashes in your mind. The image of his body looming over his lover, of her legs wrapped around her waist. Of the way her hands grasped at the dark strands of his hair.

“I believe the King has already found a way to make the best of it,” you bite out. “He’s certainly not let a little thing like our arrangement stand in the way of his pursuits.”

Hyeri, shamefaced, closes her eyes and releases a heavy breath of resignation.

“You’ve every right to be angry, Your Grace,” she acknowledges weakly. “I know this. But you would not believe the horror stories I’ve heard about other women in similar situations. Married off to horrible, heartless men. As painful as this situation is, I urge you to remember that the King is not a cruel man. And I do believe that he cares for you, in his way.”

You look up from your steaming tea to meet her gaze your own, straightening your spine and lifting your chin in defiance. She gawks when you hand it back, untouched, and stand to smooth your skirts.

You fetch your basket from a nearby table and make for the door, pausing briefly to turn back before you leave.

“Perhaps you’re right, Hyeri,” you concede quietly. “But perhaps indifference is a cruelty of its own kind.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The heat is at its peak in these final weeks of summer, the air thick with the threat of rain. It’s the kind of heat that makes it hard to walk, hard to breathe. It’s the kind of heat that keeps most people inside, seeking refuge from the unforgiving sun.

But this afternoon, you will endure it.

You’ll endure it because despite the way your dress sticks to the backs of your legs and despite the damp, suffocating grip of your corset, you still much prefer this to being confined to your chambers. Faced with Hyeri’s gentle pity.

And so you brave the heat to steal away to your safe place, to sit in quiet contemplation with only the birds chirping overhead to watch you lick your wounds.

You wonder what your mother would say if she could see you now -- her favored daughter with a useless marriage and an equally useless womb. You wonder what your sister would say if she could see you now -- her pitiful sister just as miserable as she’d so sagely predicted long ago.

You open your journal to find your sketch and trace one fingertip over the neat, clean lines of your canary likeness. The quality of the work pleases you. There is nothing to add and nothing to take away. And as you study the finished work and ponder the predicaments laid before you, a question surfaces in your mind.

What now?

Perhaps there is a strange kind of freedom in knowing that the King’s heart was never yours to win. Perhaps one day, when the sounds of their frantic coupling cease ringing in your ears, you’ll find it in yourself to feel sorry for your husband and his lover. And perhaps if you were bold like Chaehee, you’d seize any opportunity at happiness here -- propriety and etiquette be damned.

You admire the canary one last time before turning to a fresh, blank page. You reach for a charcoal and set to work on a new sketch.

This one from memory alone.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King and his men return in the dead of night.

The circumstances of his arrival suit you quite well. You’re in no particular hurry to see your husband and in no particular mood to feign excitement for his homecoming. Childishly, you wonder how long you can manage to avoid him before the servants start asking questions.

To your great dismay, you get the answer much sooner than you would have preferred.

After a morning spent walking the woods, resolutely avoiding the castle grounds, you arrive at the aviary to find the King waiting for you. He is seated at the desk -- your desk -- head tipped back as he gazes at the birds above.

Just the sight of him is enough to set off an excruciating tightness in your chest, a spontaneous distress that makes your legs feel weak. Your grip on the basket in your hands squeezes so tight, the wicker threads dig painfully into your palms.

Briefly, you contemplate turning back.

You contemplate leaving this place and this man behind and hiding from your predicaments for just a bit longer. But the sound of the earth crunching beneath your walking boots draws the King’s attention and before you can slip away unnoticed, he’s turned his gaze to you.

He rises to his feet and bile rises in your throat.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he greets kindly. “I hope I find you well today.”

“Good afternoon,” you murmur, returning the bow with a stiff one of your own. “And you do.”

“I sought you out at the castle but Hyeri said she hadn’t seen you since morning,” he explains, taking a few tentative steps towards you. “So I thought I might find you here.”

“Find me you did, Your Grace,” you return soberly, moving to set your basket down. You issue your next words through a tight smile. “And welcome back, of course. I am pleased by your safe return.”

The warm smile that comes over him makes your stomach lurch.

“Thank you. It’s rather a good thing that I could not find you at the castle, I suppose. It really has been too long since I’ve spent time here.” He sweeps his gaze over the grandeur of his garden and you study his handsome face.

His handsome, traitorous face.

“It is quite lovely, isn’t it?” he muses.

“Quite.”

The conversation grinds to a halt when you add nothing further to the sentiment. The two of you regard one another in uneasy silence until the King clears his throat.

“I have something for you,” he says, producing a small leather pouch from his pocket. “It’s only a small trinket, but it made me think of you.”

You think of me? How on earth do you find the time?

The caustic words leap to the tip of your tongue but you swallow them down instead of speaking them out loud. Instead you force yourself to extend your hand and accept the pouch, resisting the urge to pull your hand away when the King’s fingers brush against yours.

There’s a question in the way he’s looking at you right now, and you’re keenly aware of it as he watches you open his gift. You turn the pouch over in your hand and a green stone tumbles into your palm.

You’re quiet as you study it, running your thumb over it’s smooth edges. Feeling for the dip of the grooves carved into it. It takes a moment to realize what you’re seeing is the rudimentary shape of a bird.

“It’s Jade,” the King explains. “The Northerners are still a rather superstitious people, you see. Many of them still subscribe to the ways of the old kings. They say Jade brings prosperity and health.” He pauses for a moment before adding awkwardly, “If you believe in that sort of thing, of course.”

Slowly, you lift your gaze from the stone in your palm to regard your truly perplexing husband.

You’d expected your fury to return the moment you saw him again. You’d expected to be filled with the same white-hot rage you’d felt the day you discovered him in bed with his lover. But now he stands before you and the anger will not materialize. In its place, you feel something far more complicated.

Resignation.

Long before your fathers laid out a plan to join the two of you in matrimony, the King was in love with someone else. Long before the laborious dress fittings or the days-long carriage ride that brought you here, the King was in love with someone else.

Nothing you have done or could do will change that.

There is realization, too. That what lies at the very root of your anger is wounded pride -- not a broken heart. The King may never love you, and in this moment you have never been more certain that you could never love him back.

You’ve been silent for far too long. Staring for far too long. You know it from the way the tips of the King’s ears have turned a bit rosy and from the boyish way he scratches at the back of his neck.

“If you don’t like it -- ”

“ -- No. No, I like it very much,” you insist, once you can think clearly enough to speak. “Thank you. I wish very much for years of prosperity and health. So let us both hope the Northerners have it right.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The King doesn’t come to you that night.

And as you lie awake in bed, you wonder if he’s with her right now. Making up for lost time the way that only lovers can.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

It’s the sight of a massive Black Arabian that stops you short in the middle of your morning walk.

The grand animal stands taller than any horse you’ve ever seen, muscles prominent and coat shiny with sweat as it cants circles around the horse pen. Its head sways wildly as it snorts, stamping its feet in irritation.

The curious scene draws you off your intended path and you find yourself walking towards it instead of towards the woods. As you near, you watch a stablehand attempt to approach the animal, seeking to grab hold of its bridle. The animal shakes its head violently and the stablehand shrinks back in fear.

“Leave him be.”

The order that comes from just inside the stables is gruff, tone brooking no argument. You turn towards it, watching as Lord Jung emerges from the refuge of the shade. “He’s had enough.”

The stablehand looks all too happy to quit the company of the irate stallion. You smother a laugh at the comical speed in which he backs out of the pen. He spots you standing near the fence as he makes his escape, bravely pausing long enough to risk a bow in your direction.

The gesture immediately captures the attention of Lord Jung and he approaches without delay.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he says with a quiet smile, bowing smoothly. “I would have acknowledged you much sooner had I known you were here.”

He’s forgone the heavy weight of his tunic in this heat, opting instead for a light linen shirt -- the sleeves of which he’s rolled up to expose his strong forearms. Locks of dark hair cling to the sweat at his brow, curling at the ends.

Truly, you must speak with Hyeri at once about drawing your corset too tight. It’s the only reasonable explanation for why it takes you so long to find a breath.

“No, My Lord, please. You must forgive me for sneaking around,” you return at last. “I hadn’t meant to interrupt but I heard the fuss as I was headed out to the woods. I stopped to take a closer look.”

Lord Jung looks over his shoulder at the Arabian, still trotting frustrated circles around the pen. Though the animal seems to have calmed considerably since the retreat of the stablehand, it’s clear he’s still a bit disgruntled.

“We brought him back from the survey,” he explains. “A gift to His Grace from one of the wealthy Northern families.”

“A generous gift,” you muse. “He’s magnificent.”

“He is,” Lord Jung agrees. “And he’ll be a powerful asset one day. Today, however, it’s proving a bit of a challenge to break him. ”

Behind him the horse continues to stamp, head swaying. It brings each foot high and drops it back in a jerking motion, snorting with irritation at nearly every step.

“I wonder if he doesn’t care for the shape of his shoes,” you speculate. “Some horses are quite particular about that sort of thing, from what I understand.”

Lord Jung turns back to you with an expression of mild surprise.

“You have knowledge of horses?”

“I have some,” you admit shyly. “My brother works with them a great deal. I spent so many days at his heels that he had no choice but to relent and teach me how to ride.”

The memory makes you smile. And when your eyes flick up to meet his, Lord Jung is smiling too. Your pulse skips a beat at the way he regards you with those fathomless dark eyes.

“Do you miss riding?”

Every day.

“Sometimes.”

Lord Jung nods as he reaches for the skin of water at his hip. He takes a long pull of it before swiping at the sweat on his brow with his forearm, the linen shirt clinging scandalously to his lean chest.

You breathe deeply and force yourself to look away from him and back to the horse.

“I suspect it will take some time to fully break him in,” he remarks thoughtfully. “I’ll be working here in the stables for the time being. If it pleases you, you are certainly welcome to come watch.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “So long as the King doesn’t mind you spending time away, that is.”

“Oh, I assure you Lord Jung,” you laugh, hoping the sound is enough to conceal the true cynicism in your words, “I am quite the last thing on the King’s mind at this hour or any other.”

You regret the words the very moment they come out of your mouth.

The darkness that comes over the man’s pretty features is like a passing shadow, gone nearly as quickly as it comes on. But you see it -- and it’s more than enough to make you feel embarrassed for speaking so carelessly. You tuck a wayward strand of hair behind your ear and shift your weight on your feet.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean -- ” you start awkwardly, only to be silenced by Lord Jung.

“-- Don’t. There’s no need to apologize, Your Grace,” he interrupts, an edge of steel to his voice that you are certain was not there before. “The offer stands. You know where to find me.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

You take great care to busy yourself the next morning, setting off to the kitchen pantries with purpose.

Armed with a large basket, you carefully pore through the castle’s stores seeking dried noodles, salted meats and cheeses. You search for foods that would keep without spoiling quickly and find a veritable bounty -- Guksu noodles that could sit at the heart of any meal and beef that would do quite nicely for a Jangjorim.

The kitchen women bustle all around you, working to prepare huge pots of kimchi stew. You do your best to be mindful, trying not to be underfoot as they work -- and they pay your consideration back in kind with pleasant smiles and gentle offers of assistance.

You gladly accept the help.

And though there is much to occupy your mind this morning, you find that you cannot stop thinking about Lord Jung. At the very forefront remains the disconcerting way his demeanor had changed at the end of your encounter at the stables.

You cannot help but feel as though you’d angered him with your thoughtless words about the King.

You would do quite well to remember that Lord Jung’s loyalties lie squarely with His Grace and likely always will. That the two of them have been bound to one another since they were boys and that nothing -- certainly not some foreign interloper -- is likely to change that.

So you spend an inordinate amount of time arranging and rearranging the supplies in your basket -- trying to push the memory of Lord Jung’s dark eyes and quiet smile out of your mind. You remind yourself that duty and honor take precedence above all else for a man like him. That his kindness and generosity are surely little more than gestures of respect.

But beneath all of your rationalizations, a question still lingers.

What if they’re not?

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Min Boram is a tiny little thing. Pretty, delicate features set in a slender face.

It makes the wide smile she wears as she welcomes you into her home seem much larger, wholly warm and inviting. She bows to you first and then takes you by complete surprise by throwing her arms around you and squeezing tight.

You decide in that very first moment that you like her very, very much.

The Min household is rather modest in size, but exceedingly neat and well furnished. A pot of beancurd soup simmers on the stove, tinging the air with a comforting scent. There is an atmosphere of care and calm in this place and it makes you feel immediately at ease.

“Your Grace, it is so kind of you to pay a visit,” Boram says sweetly, eyes flashing with excitement as you extend the basket in your hands. At the very top sits the tiny pair of socks you’d spent days working on. Imperfect stitches face down, of course.

“And you come bearing gifts? My goodness, this is so generous.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, truly,” you smile, taking the seat she offers you in the drawing room. She leaves you for only a moment before returning with two cups of tea, one of which you gratefully accept. “I really had hoped to come by much sooner, but Hyeri explained to me that there is a customary waiting period in this Kingdom after a mother welcomes a child.”

Boram feigns a look of annoyance, waving one bothered hand in the air.

“Customs can be so strange, can they not? I would have gladly welcomed you any time you wished. But I am quite glad that you are here now.”

You’re quite glad of it too, you think. You welcome the change in scenery and company, the chance to spend time away from the castle and all the complications it represents.

“I can only imagine how busy these first few months of motherhood are,” you say, gesturing to your basket. “So I tried to bring you a few things that might help in that regard. A few things that could go into a quick meal if you find yourself pressed for time.”

Boram grins.

“Food is always in short supply in this house, on account of my husband. I don’t know where he puts it, but I will make sure he knows who to thank for this generous contribution to his full belly.”

At that, you can’t help but laugh.

“I’m sure you’re wondering where the baby is,” she says, casting a sidelong glance at one of the home’s bedrooms. “She’s still sleeping, I’m afraid. I still have yet to convince her that the time for rest is when the sun goes down.”

“Does she wake very often, then?”

“Three times at least,” Boram sighs. “Two times on a good night. It’s a wonder I have my wits about me enough to conduct a proper conversation with you right now.”

“I would also like to add that you look very well,” you remark genuinely. “Were I not privy to your news, I’d be hard pressed to identify you as a new mother at all.”

Boram’s cheeks flush at the compliment. “You flatter me, Your Grace.”

“And Lord Min? How is he faring in the early days of fatherhood?”

Boram pulls a face that makes you smile.

“Yoongi has always been one to treasure his sleep and there’s little of that to come by these days. I’ve found him napping in the garden at least twice now.”

“Poor man,” you laugh.

“Oh, please,” Boram groans, rolling her eyes. “I cook all his favorite foods to make up for it. He’ll live.”

“That he will,” you agree with a smile. You set your teacup down and smooth your hands over your skirts. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Min. I had only planned to take a few minutes of your time but your company is so welcome I think I forgot myself.”

“It’s Boram,” she corrects with a teasing huff, “And if it pleases you, I’d very much like you to stay. It’s yet another hour until Yoongi will be home for lunch. I realize you’re quite busy, but -- ”

“ -- I’m not,” you cut in, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I’m not busy at all. And I’ll be happy to stay for a while longer.”

So you stay, happily, and forget the time again as you make conversation with Boram. There is no artifice in her, none of the contrived pleasantry and deference you find in so many of your interactions as a Queen. The two of you carry on in pleasant discourse until a sharp cry from the bedroom silences you both.

“Oh no. I hope I didn’t wake her,” you whisper, as though controlling the volume of your voice after the fact would serve any purpose at all.

Boram snorts. “Certainly not. It’s time for her to eat, is all. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll fetch her.”

For the second time since meeting, Min Boram surprises you -- this time by producing what is quite certainly the most plump baby you’ve ever seen. It defies logic that two people so slight in stature could produce an infant so round. You take care not to stare in wide-eyed shock as Boram settles back into her chair with the adorable, chubby child now at her breast.

“What a delightful diversion you are, Your Grace. I find that most of my days are spent like this now,” she says, motioning to her precious cargo. “It’s nice to speak to someone who speaks back for a change.”

If only she knew how deeply you understood that sentiment. How you sometimes dread the morning routine of deciding between the very few options before you, how you sometimes dread the night knowing that when you wake you’ll do it over again. And again.

“Can I tell you a secret, Boram?” you ask. The woman nods, lips parted as she listens.

“I’m bored,” you admit with a laugh. “I’ve nothing to do. There are people here to see to the feasts and people to see to the staff and people to see to every available task. Most days, I find myself quite at odds over how to pass the time. I suppose if I had children, it would be my responsibility alone to rear them, but as yet I do not. And so, if you find yourself in need of someone who speaks back, I would be glad to be that someone.”

Boram is quiet for a moment before her lips curve into a soft, appreciative smile.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Boram replies softly. “For many things. But for your honesty, most of all.”

You flush a bit, looking down at your hands. You hadn’t expected to speak to her with such candor and you can’t help but feel a bit exposed. Boram finishes feeding her daughter, looking at you thoughtfully as she gently raps against the child’s back.

“Would you like to hold her?”

God, you would, wouldn’t you? You’d longed for it from the moment you arrived. You nod with a shy smile and Boram stands to her feet. Carefully, she settles her child into the waiting cradle of your arms.

You welcome the weight of the baby, hold her carefully to your chest and watch, utterly rapt as she blinks up at you with curious dark eyes, milk-drunk and content.

“She’s beautiful, is she not?” Boram says proudly.

“She is,” you breathe, stroking one reverent hand over the tuft of hair at the crown of the baby’s head. “Truly the sweetest child.”

“When I was a girl, my mother told me that children born with hair are highly favored. Destined for greatness,” she muses softly. “I told Yoongi the same thing when she was born.”

“And what did he say?” you ask, refusing to take your eyes off the child for even a moment.

“He’s far too pragmatic, my husband,” she scoffs. “He says the King didn’t have a single hair on his head until he was two years old. And he’s the King now, after all, isn’t he?”

The mere mention of the King, particularly as you are holding this child, is like a knife to a freshly scabbed wound. You are unprepared for the swell of emotion that follows -- unprepared for the way your throat seizes, making it hard to breathe. Unprepared for the tears that swim into your vision.

And it is somewhere in the midst of this crisis -- with Min Yeona pressed to your breast -- that you miss the sound of boots being kicked clean at the door. Not one pair, but two.

When you finally come to your senses long enough to lift your head and acknowledge the men standing before you, it’s too late to conceal the afflicted look on your face. Too late to wipe away with unshed tears.

Lord Jung fixes his dark eyes to yours. You wish you could hide from him in this moment, so that he couldn’t see you like this. So that you didn’t have to see the concern, the alarm in his eyes.

For the first time since coming to this place, someone finally sees you.

At the very moment in which you wish least to be seen.

hello if you are reading this now i super appreciate you. thank you for reading and i'd love to hear from you 💕💕💕 talk to me here!

He’s warm, far too warm, skin feverish and damp from what must have been a scalding hot shower. He’s breathing hard like he’s just gone for a run, his shuddering breaths ragged and rough behind the soft shell of your ear. And he’s holding you so tight he’s practically crushing his body to yours.

That’s when you realize he’s trembling.

That’s when your own heart starts to rattle inside your chest.

“Hoseok,” you call his name louder now, clearer, trying to suppress the panic in your voice. “Baby, please. Tell me you’re okay.”

He doesn’t.

You wrench yourself out of his stranglehold to turn over and curl into him, searching for his face in the dark. Beneath the lone sliver of moonlight that peeks through the blinds he looks blank, eyes open and unseeing.

“Hoseok -- “ you cup his face in your hands, grip firm as you try to rouse him from his stupor. “-- You’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He stares back at you, quiet for a long time before he answers.

“Bad night, baby,” he whispers at last, “Real bad night.”

The words alone would be enough to make your heart seize, but the brittle, hollow sound of his voice is your undoing. He’s right in front of you, in your arms, but he sounds a million miles away.

“You want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Your answer is in his vacant expression, the shuttered look in his eyes. You know damned well the terrible things he’s seen -- the terrible things he’s had to do in this line of work. And you know that most nights he’s able to absorb that trauma, to contain and defuse it before he comes home to you.

This is not most nights.

“It’s alright, baby,” you whisper, leaning in to press kisses to his warm temple, his flushed cheeks. “You don’t have to say anything. You don’t have to do anyth--”

The words die on your tongue Hoseok turns his face to capture your mouth with his.

The adrenaline lying dormant in his bloodstream roars back to life in an instant. In one swift movement he’s on top of you, pinning you down with his lithe frame, mouth and hands everywhere at once. His touch is rough, desperate, teeth scraping against the hollow of your throat. Fingers digging into the soft curve of your ass. He kisses you like he’s trying to consume you, filling the air in his lungs with the breath he steals from yours.

“Hoseok -- “ you pull away from him long enough to gasp for air, digging your fingers into his hair when he buries his face between your breasts. “ -- Baby, you’re okay. It’s over. It’s over.”

He’s not ready to listen.

He’s still too keyed up, too wild from whatever he endured out there tonight. He sucks bruises into the column of your throat as his unsteady hands grasp at the satin barrier between you, shoving the thin nightgown up your thighs. You draw in a sharp breath when he slots one leg between yours, pressing the hot, hard length of his cock to the soft curve of your stomach.

“I need you,” he chokes out, heart hammering wildly inside his chest where it’s pressed against your own. “Please.”

There will be none of his trademark finesse tonight. None of the sexy words he loves to whisper in your ear, none of the practiced touches he loves to tease you with until he’s certain you’re ready for him. And none of that matters in this moment.

His hips jerk when you slide a hand between your bodies to take hold of his rigid cock, guiding the blunt head to your entrance. You slide it against the moisture gathered there, pressing your lips to the shell of his ear.

“Take me, baby,” you whisper, “Take whatever you need.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before Hoseok is surging forward, fusing himself to you in one devastating stroke. He’s so damned hard -- impossibly hard -- and you can’t help but whimper at the sudden, sharp intrusion.

“Shit,” he swears under his breath, head dropping low between his shoulder blades. His arms shake with effort as he forces himself to hold still above you. “I didn’t mean -- “

You swallow his apology with a kiss, tearing a pained groan from him as you squeeze your thighs tight around his slim legs and skate your hands down his back to cup his ass. You tilt your hips up, rolling them against his in invitation.

“It’s alright, baby,” you promise, speaking the words against his lips. “I can take it.”

It’s like pulling the pin on a grenade. Once you speak those words out loud, he abandons what little control he had left, fucking into you with utter desperation. His fingers dig savagely into the cushion of your hips, pulling you in to meet each one of his unforgiving thrusts.

“Thought I was never going to see you again,” he pants, mouth latching to one stiff nipple through your nightgown. He sets his teeth to it despite the barrier, dragging it into his mouth through the damp satin.

You’re glad he can’t see the tears that spring to your eyes. You squeeze them shut, trying to push his words out of your mind, trying to think only about the steady rhythm of his hips against yours and the feeling of his cock buried deep.

“You’re here, baby,” you soothe, running your hands up his back. You can feel the faint tremor that runs just under the surface of his skin. “Here with me. You’re not going anywhere.”

At that, he fucks you harder. Hard enough that you have to press one hand to the headboard behind you to keep him from forcing you up the length of the bed. Hard enough that you know you’ll feel him everywhere tomorrow, know that you’ll see the evidence of his agony all over your skin.

He groans your name into the crook of your neck when he comes, shuddering as he empties himself inside of you for what feels like an eternity. And then he collapses onto you, shivering despite the warmth emanating from his skin, despite the heat that’s been generated between you.

You hold him close and trace your fingertips up and down his back until the shivering stops.

He’s still sleeping deeply when you slip out of bed.

The apartment is peaceful at this hour, the blue hue of the early light comforting in the quiet of the kitchen. You’re not much of a cook, never have been, but this morning that doesn’t matter.

You are going to make this man some fucking breakfast.

It’s easier to focus on brewing the coffee and buttering the toast than it is to think about the way he looked at you last night. The things he’d confessed to you in the dark. The way he held you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You crack the last of your eggs into a bowl and walk to the trash can, prepared to drop the empty carton inside.

But when you press down on the foot pedal, the lid comes up and the carton in your hand falls to the floor below.

At the top of the trash pile sits Hoseok’s white dress shirt -- the one you’d bought him in Gangnam a few months ago. The one he was wearing when you’d kissed him goodbye before he left last night.

The blood smears splattered across it are a bit rusty now, oxidized and dull.

It’s so much blood that for a moment your heart stops before your brain steps in to remind you that this can’t be his blood. That you’d had your hands and mouth on every inch of his skin last night. That he’s sleeping safe and sound in your bedroom just a few feet away.

You’ve seen so many sides of Hoseok by now, his happiness and his passion and his melancholy and his fury. But you’ve never seen him terrified. Not until now.

You stare down at that shirt, willing yourself not to imagine the gruesome scenarios that come to mind. Willing yourself not to panic over events that are already said and done. Willing yourself not to collapse with grief.

He’d asked you to marry him.

He’d done it in that low key way of his, of course -- on a drive home from dinner, stopped at a red light. He’d cut the radio and reached across the gear shift to take your hand and he’d asked you to marry him. And you’d said no.

You’d argued that trauma begets trauma. That hearing the stories about your own parents’ volatile marriage had poisoned you against any hope for one of your own. That you still didn’t fully understand the damage done by years at the hands of an alcoholic father in the absence of a dead mother. That being a Kim at one time nearly destroyed you, but now it defines you.

And he’d accepted it.

In that low key way of his, of course -- stone-faced and jaw tight. He’d never made mention of it again, though you could sometimes feel it heavy in the air between you. Though at times you could feel the weight of it pressing down on your chest when you relived the memory of that night in the car.

This morning, you stare down into that trash can -- down at the ghastly red-orange stains that mar what used to be a pristine white canvas -- and your excuses echo through your mind, pathetic and small.

Hoseok would give his life for you. For your brother. For any man in this organization without second thought.

This is the life you chose and this is the man you chose.

And it is time you give him this.

tag list!